Footwashing

At the Mennonite church I attended before moving to NYC, footwashing was a big deal. Right up there with communion and baptism. We saved it for Holy Thursday so we could really reenact the last supper as closely as possible for a bunch of folks in 20th century Pennsylvania. After celebrating communion and sharing a meal of hummus and other Middle Eastern treats, we retreated from the sanctuary into the church nursery (men) and library (women) to wash each other’s feet.

In the women’s room, we made small talk while we took off our shoes and socks and rolled up our pant legs. The older ladies kept their stockings on. And through the ritual of kneeling down in front of one another and gently washing each others feet in a basin of cold water, we kept talking, as if this was something we did every day. The older women initiated the younger women by telling us stories of how things used to be, back when the men and women sat on separate sides of the church, all the women wore head coverings and wouldn’t have dreamed that they could ever become pastors. It was the one time in the year when the newcomers and the old timers shared an intimacy that only a group of women could create. When I knelt down and nervously held the stockinged foot of one of the elders in my hand, I think I caught a glimpse of what Jesus was trying to do that night, when he washed the disciples feet and then told them to go and wash each others feet. Vulnerability and community and grace in a basin of cold water.